FISTFULS OF EARTH

Val Roberts

I step inside. The air smells musty. The autumnal sun slices through the glass panes, illuminating the motionless bluebottles. They are trapped inside the sticky sap of butterworts. Scattered across the floor like forgotten memories. Stuck inside the delicate fibres of spiderwebs stretched between tomato and pepper plants. The plants are wilting, the fruits’ cores devoured by the flies. A tiny red tomato is clinging onto a stem. I pick it off. It feels firm, a toy model of its potential self. ‘I will slice you up later, place you onto a piece of toast and eat.’ I put the tomato into my pocket. It seems my father did not feed and water the plants for quite some time before he collapsed onto the field outside the farmhouse, laid there for a week until a local found him. Even the bluebottles did not have chance to escape suffocation. I look up to examine one stuck to a fly ribbon above the door, its legs spread in a final, worthless cavort.
     Inside this glass house, every life feeds another. After every rotting death, there is a continuous story of growth. I pick up a pair of secateurs from the potting table, meticulously trim the plants. ‘You should know, my friends: outside, the world rages with torture, but in here, the only sound is the gentle snipping as I cut away your decay, soft thuds as your dead bits hit the ground. Shh, it is for your own wellbeing.’ I tremble, filling the watering can with water from the tap. The plants drink with a thirst I can relate to. ‘You are welcome. Grow strong, my friends, sprout new life, swell, ripen.’ I dig my shaking hands into a bag of compost, lift out one handful at a time, patting each dose down into the pots, ensuring the plants’ roots are stable. I notice the crescents of grime under my fingernails. Rush to turn the tap on, my throat burning, muscles tightening. Scrub violently with a pot brush at the dirt.